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  Little Bookshop of Murder

  A BEACH READS MYSTERY

  Maggie Blackburn

  For my daughters, Emma and Tess, and for my other “daughters”—the other Tess, Lucie & Nora, Margo, Gracie, Rebecca, Destiny, Violet, Vali, Ella & Lydia.

  Also dedicated to Paige Edwards, who stole me away for a few days to a magical beach and helped to inspire this book and my fantasy bookstore —Beach Reads.

  Acknowledgments

  With this book, I have a new publisher to add to my list of wonderful publishing experiences. Thanks so much to the Crooked Lane team for loving this story as much as I do and for all of the hard work, editing, promoting, and working your magic. Special thanks to Terri Bischoff, editor extraordinaire, but also one of the best people I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know in the business. Thank you to Leeyanne and Eric Moore for spending their Thanksgiving last year filling me in on the world of academia. A heartfelt thank-you goes to my agent, who found a perfect publishing home for this story—thank you, Jill Marsal. You are a rock star. Special thanks to Nancy Naigle and Julie Hyzy for reading an early version of this book and for providing blurbs.

  As always, thanks to my daughters, Emma and Tess, both the light of my life. Last but not least, thank you, reader, for spending time getting to know Summer Merriweather and her family and friends.

  XO

  “Maggie”

  Chapter One

  Summer Merriweather slipped off her flip-flops, allowing the sand’s warmth to comfort the bottom of her feet like it had thousands of times before. She looked out over the waves, the water shimmering in the soft pink morning light. She walked toward the water and gazed over the horizon—the line between the sky and sea barely visible. A seagull cried in the distance. Another one flew in front of her and landed on the wet, shiny sand. “Sorry, I have nothing for you today.” As if understanding, the gull flew off across the water.

  Behind her, down a short, sandy, rocky path cut between brown sea grasses, was her childhood home. She felt its presence although she didn’t even take a glimpse. She couldn’t look at it. Not yet.

  She and her mom would walk out here almost every day, look at the ocean together, walk, talk, fight, cry, yell. But it all seemed so small next to the ocean. Next to now. Now, when she had to place one bare foot in front of the other and walk to her mother’s funeral.

  She’d almost missed it. Her own mother’s funeral.

  In a jet-lagged, sleepy haze, she took a step toward town and another. She walked past what was left of her old neighborhood, little brightly colored shot-gun houses and cottages, one right next to another. Five of them remained out of the original twenty. She moved past the neighborhood of expensive brick condos lining the beach. Condos for the tourists. Or for the summer people, those who came to bask in the joy of summer on Brigid’s Island.

  She’d been away from home for years, yet when she remembered the summer people, her stomach soured still. How the locals loved and hated them at the same time. They needed the summer people’s money but hated their city, self-involved ways.

  She stopped moving as the famous Brigid’s Island breeze circled her, cooled her. As she drew in air, the scent of Wanda’s Hog Dogs hinted in the air. Best hot dogs on the planet. Wanda’s cart must be nearby. She didn’t have time for a hot dog. She was late.

  Summer hurried past the condos and a park-like town square. At the far end were the town offices and the square, lined with little shops, mostly geared to the tourists, like the ones on the boardwalk up ahead, including her mother’s shop, Beach Reads.

  At the corner of this square sat Beach Chapel, a non-denominational church, and this was where Summer’s bare feet led her. If only she’d been here, if only they’d known how to reach her sooner, her beach-loving, free-spirited mom’s life would not be celebrated in a church, a place that Summer didn’t even think her mom had ever set foot in. Summer had nothing against churches—in fact, she belonged to one in Staunton, Virginia, where she lived. But her mother didn’t like churches.

  Who’d decided on this service for her mom? Shouldn’t they remember her the way she would have wanted it? Why wasn’t there some earth-mother-goddess woman standing at the shore, offering words of wisdom?

  Okay, Summer had been out of the country, in England, researching and writing, hoping to save her job, but why not wait until they’d reached her?

  She’d always admired the white clapboard church she walked toward, but today it looked more like a prison than a church. How was she going to sit through this, knowing her mom would’ve disapproved? Summer stepped onto the concrete sidewalk, slipped on her flip-flops, and opened the door.

  * * *

  The service was a blur for Summer, and soon enough her silver-haired Aunt Agatha was at her side, leading her to the lunch the church held for them. “I’d like to go lie down,” Summer said.

  “They’ve gone to a lot of trouble. You should come along.” Aunt Agatha wore a red dress with a mermaid print. Red was the favorite color of Summer’s mom, and everybody knew how she felt about mermaids. Summer’s heart fluttered—her hand touched the silver mermaid pendant she wore almost every day. Hildy, her mom, had given her the necklace for her sixteenth birthday.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t think so, Aunt Agatha. I couldn’t eat a thing. I don’t understand why we’re here. And I need answers about Mom’s death. None of this makes any sense to me.”

  “You’re in shock. Of course it makes little sense.”

  Was that it? She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. An impulse or longing moved through her. What was it she needed? What was calling to her?

  Beach Reads. She needed to visit the bookstore her mom had owned and loved. She needed to feel her mom. This place? These people? This didn’t feel right.

  Summer started to leave, but Aunt Agatha held her back. “Where are you going?”

  Summer paused. Would her aunt even believe her? That she wanted to go to Beach Reads, the bookstore she had always hated? That suddenly it was the one place she wanted to be? “I’m going to the bookstore.”

  Her aunt’s face softened. “Oh, Summer.” Her chin quivered. “Let me get my things. I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t feel like you have to.”

  “You ought to know me better than that. I’m at the age where I do what I want. Who needs more bloody green bean casseroles and scalloped potatoes, anyway?”

  Summer grinned. There was the Aunt Hildy she knew and loved. Her mom’s only sister, Agatha garnered no foolishness. Never had. In fact, it was one quality Summer loved about her. She was quite the opposite from Hildy. Summer’s mother was all sparkles, peace, and free love. Aunt Agatha scoffed at such notions, but her love and respect for Hildy was deep and abiding.

  It was good and right that Aunt Agatha come along to the bookstore. And if anybody knew what was going on with Hildy and her death, it would be her. Summer wanted answers. And she wanted them now. Why would a healthy sixty-four-year-old woman just drop dead?

  Chapter Two

  Beach Reads sat on the far corner of the four-block-long board- walk. Summer, her aunt, cousin, and cousin’s daughter walked down it, even though the boardwalk was closed because it was a Monday and the summer season hadn’t fully begun. The scents of the previous days’ treats hung in the air—buttered popcorn, funnel cakes, and soured milkshakes, probably coming from a nearby trash can.

  One seagull landed in front of them and stood, sizing them up. Agatha eyed Piper, her daughter, and Summer. “Have you been feeding them again?”

  Long, lean, fair-haired Piper wrapped her arms around Summer and laughed. Physically, Piper resembled the Merriweathers, who were blonde, blue-ey
ed, and lean, where Summer was olive skinned, black haired, brown eyed, and curvy. They’d gotten in trouble more than once for feeding the wild birds. She smiled back at Piper as she recalled the two of them sneaking food to what others called the “pesky seagulls.”

  “Shoo.” Agatha waved at the bird, and it finally flew off, allowing them to continue their walk.

  “She wasn’t hurting anybody, Gram,” Mia, Piper’s daughter, said.

  “Mind your tone,” Aunt Agatha said as she walked up to the Beach Reads front door, where a lopsided sign hung announcing the store would reopen soon. Summer picked up an unmarked, large, brown envelope, leaning on the side of the door, and tucked it beneath her arm.

  The carved mermaid arch above the doorway had weathered and appeared as if it had emerged from the bow of an old shipwrecked vessel. Agatha slipped the key in the lock. As the four of them stepped into the shop, the wood floor creaked, just like always, and the scent of fresh books, with a hint of patchouli, hit Summer with a whoosh. She dizzied and clutched her chest, searching for a chair.

  She found the pillowed window seat, facing the boardwalk and beach. Small stacks of books sat near the blue starfish-patterned pillows, as if someone had just been there reading. She took in the view—the waves rolling in beyond the rickety boardwalk and gray sand. Some beach visitors dotted the landscape, with their colorful chairs, umbrellas, coolers, and—yes—books in their hands. A few brave souls walked along the surf’s still-cold edge.

  “Are you okay?” Piper asked.

  “I just need a minute.” Summer swallowed a burning sensation creeping into her throat. “That damned patchouli,” she muttered. But in some strange way it comforted her.

  She breathed in the scent again—it brought her mother to her. It was almost as if she was sitting right next to her. This was what Hildy always called her center of power. Summer closed her eyes, drew in the scent, and remembered the day the bookstore opened the second floor. It had taken years for Hildy to save for expansion.

  Summer had been eleven years old during the grand opening of the second-floor room. Walking upstairs had been like entering straight into her mother’s imagination. Neat rows of books. Nooks with comfortable spaces to read. The new room offered more wall space, which Hildy decorated with colorful mermaid art, mostly by local artists. But it was the view that made the place, with floor to ceiling windows and a wrap-around balcony with comfortable furniture where you could sit, read, drink, chat with your friends. The room felt open, but Hildy used every space in the room for books or useful book gadgets, like bags, lights, and bookmarks.

  Growing up, Summer had loved to sit on the balcony underneath the seashell-patterned blue and white umbrellas, looking out at the beach or with her nose stuck in one Shakespeare play or another. It was the only thing she liked about the store. But as a small girl, before she’d discovered Shakespeare, she’d sit among the books, not quite allowed to read the adult books, and imagine the stories. Imagining the words, the language, coming to life on the pages, whispering stories to her.

  Agatha walked over to Summer and handed her a bottle of water. Summer took a drink.

  “I need to ask you something,” Summer said after a few moments.

  “Yes?”

  “What happened to my mother? And why was her service in a church?”

  “There was a mix-up at the hospital, and I’m afraid it was my fault. I just wasn’t thinking and signed the wrong papers,” Hildy said. She sat next to Summer. “The autopsy results on Hildy aren’t back yet. We’ve no idea what happened to her.”

  Maybe Summer was imagining it, but it seemed Aunt Agatha was avoiding eye contact. “How long will it take?”

  Agatha shrugged. “A few more days, I should think. Remember, we don’t have such services on the island. All the labs, or whatever, had to go to Wilmington.”

  “Mom was one of the healthiest people I know. Other than her cat allergies, I can only remember her being sick maybe twice.” Summer sat the brown envelope down on the other side of her.

  Agatha started to say something, when Piper and Mia ambled over to them.

  Summer looked up at them and caught a category title on the bookcase behind Agatha’s head. “Werewolf Romances.”

  “Werewolf romances?” Piper said.

  “What?” Agatha looked around.

  “Behind Piper. The sign says ‘Werewolf Romances.’ What the heck?” Summer would much rather feel indignant than sad.

  “Oh, heavens yes. It’s a huge market. Takes up those three long shelves. Do you see?” Agatha pointed toward the books.

  “Seriously? I need more water.” Summer took another drink.

  “You should look around. The romance genre has grown since when you and I worked summers here.” Piper gently nudged her.

  Maybe the romance genre had changed, but Beach Reads was still the same. Full of “easy” reads and brimming with books, comfortable chairs in reading nooks, and a never-ending pot of free coffee.

  “I remember the vampire romances, but not werewolves.”

  “Back then, I think the only vampire romances were by Anne Rice. Now there is a whole section.” Piper grinned. “Okay, it’s not your thing. But I love a sexy vampire or werewolf.”

  She wriggled her eyebrows comically, forcing Summer to laugh.

  Summer stood, needing to stretch her legs. She walked down the aisle, chock full of romances of every strange variety. Werewolf. Shifter. Vampire. Paranormal.

  Summer ran her fingers along the spines of the books until she reached the end of the row. An overstuffed cobalt velveteen chair sat there with a throw flung over it, and a floor lamp was strategically placed for good, well-lit reading. Anne Rice’s signature was on the wall above the chair. All the authors who’d visited had signed the walls throughout the store. Other bookstores sometimes had one wall where authors signed. But Hildy allowed the authors to sign wherever they wanted—and it had become a game with readers to try to find all the names. As you walked along, you read autographs on a wall, on a shelf, or even on the wood floor. Painted handwritten quotes from Hildy’s favorite novels also donned the floors.

  Summer spotted one from Jane Austen: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

  Hildy would laugh every time she read it. “Well, let the men of the world know, I’m nobody’s wife.”

  Still, Hildy loved the line, considered it brilliant. And even though Summer was no fan of the romance genre, like her mom, she liked the line well enough and appreciated Austen. Thinking of the line and her mom’s reaction always made her smile.

  “Hey, you forgot this.” Piper handed Summer the brown envelope.

  “What is it anyway? I picked it up outside.” Summer walked over to her mom’s display case of first editions. Pride and Prejudice was one of her treasures, along with Wuthering Heights, and Gone with the Wind.

  Piper fidgeted with her sandal strap, which had worked loose. “Open it and find out.”

  Agatha flicked on the light, and it was almost as if it had awakened the place. A tingle moved through Summer, calming and centering her. She was glad she’d come to the store before going to the house.

  She opened the envelope and slipped out the blank piece of black construction paper. “What is this? There’s nothing on it.”

  “Turn it over.” Piper gestured with her hand. “There’s something on the other side—an ad maybe.”

  Summer wanted to blink, but she couldn’t. She froze with fear as she read the note: “Sell the bookstore or die.”

  Piper gasped. “What the hell?”

  Mia took a sudden interest. “Let me see.” The three of them stood reading over the note, which was fashioned from words clipped out of magazines and newspapers. All three were speechless—until Agatha came around the corner.

  Summer held up the paper for her to see, and she snatched it, flustered. “Hooligans. That’s all. Nothing serious, I assure yo
u.”

  Mia’s eyes widened. “Looks pretty serious to me.”

  Summer’s thoughts exactly.

  “Prankster kids. That’s all.” Agatha waved them off.

  “Aunt Agatha, has this happened before?”

  “Not this exact thing, no. Now let’s go home, shall we? You must be exhausted. We can talk about this later.” She was flustered, her cheeks red and jaw clenched.

  Summer was too tired to argue, but she wouldn’t let Aunt Agatha off the hook that easily. “What do you mean by ‘not this kind of thing exactly’?”

  Agatha motioned toward Mia. “This isn’t the time, Summer. Please. Let’s talk later.”

  Summer’s eyes met with Mia’s, who rolled her eyes and folded her arms. “I’m not a baby,” she said.

  What was going on here? Something wasn’t right about her mother’s death. What kind of secret was Agatha keeping? Had someone threatened her mom?

  “Let’s go, shall we?” Agatha opened the door, and three other women entered the store as if they belonged there.

  “Summer!” Glads, said as she circled Summer in her arms. She rubbed Summer’s back as she held her in a long, drawn-out hug. One of her mom’s Mermaid Pie Book Club members, Glads was tall and thin, with a pointy nose and chin, and dressed in black jeans and a red T-shirt draped with beads. Her name was Gladys, but everyone just called her Glads. A memory poked at Summer: the last time she’d seen her, Glads was dancing naked on the beach with a group of women, including Hildy, much to Summer’s embarrassment.

  After their embrace, tears streamed down Glads’s face. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled tissue, and blew her nose.

  Another woman stepped forward. “Hi, Summer. I’m not sure you remember me. I’m Marilyn, and this is the newest member of the book group, Doris.” She gestured in Doris’s direction. “We just stopped by to see when the store would be open again.”

  Summer remembered Marilyn, the sixty-something-year-old, spike-haired town librarian with floral tattoos. She wanted her skin to look like a field of wildflowers. She’d partnered with Summer’s mom on book events. The book group, her mother’s pride and joy, had been thriving for twenty years.